


The Mark of the Suffering

by Shayne_The_Archangel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anorexia, Awful Childhood, Bullying, Multi, Self Harm Fic, Self Harm Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-05 00:54:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5354729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayne_The_Archangel/pseuds/Shayne_The_Archangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Summary in the notes)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Freak

**Author's Note:**

> You know the drill. Sherlock/John fan fiction. (I can't give away the plot. Spoilers, and whatnot.)
> 
> This fan fiction is based off of a true story. (Sort of) Some of the things that happen in this fic have actually happened in real life. My real life. This story is pure stress relief. People liking it is a bonus, if people do like it. If you're curious about what is true and what is not, ask me in the comments.
> 
> Enjoy.

Sherlock breathed heavily in the lowly oxidated bathroom of 221B, clutching the cabinet.

He had just finished a case and, in the process, saved a teenage girl's life. But, for some reason, people had had negative reactions.

_"What the hell, freak?! You are not allowed to storm around, beating people up randomly. I don't care if you saved that girl's life! You said you figured it out by the way the guy walked from chafing?" Sally made a disgusted face. "You're a sick, perverted freak! Who did you stalk to get that information, anyways?"_

_"What if I said you?" Sherlock said, hiding his emotional deflation expertly._

_Sally's face became even more disgusted. "You're an ignorant, sick, insane freak! Piss off!" Sally then stormed off, ending the conversation. Sherlock turned around and started walking over to the cab that John had gotten._

_"Nice job, freak." Anderson muttered as Sherlock passed. Sherlock kept a straight face as he got into the cab and drove all the way back to Baker St._

Sherlock winced at the memory of the names he had been called. It hurt mostly because they were true. He was ignorant. He was sick. He was insane. He was... A freak.

That's the one that truly hit home. Freak. It was the one they had called him since Primary.

Sherlock lifted a hand to the medicine cabinet and opened it, pulling out a wooden box. He set down the box and opened it, revealing three long, thin, small, and sharp blades. Sherlock picked up the most recently used one and thought back to his encounter with his two least favorite Yarders. He counted how many times someone had called him a freak. He made four incisions on his inner forearm, blending in with their millions of twins, the only thing setting them apart was the blood oozing from them. Sherlock studied his arm. It looked like it always did. Scarred. Bloody. Evidence of Sherlock's self punishment. Punishment for being a terrible person. Punishment for being an ignorant pervert. Punishment for being... Sherlock. The Freak. Sherlock then had a twisted idea.

He placed the razor on his skin and made three incisions, one vertical, two horizontal, forming a huge, crimson 'F'. Sherlock then made an 'R'. Then an 'E'. Then an 'A'. Then, finally, a 'K'. When he was done, the oozing blood outline the cuts, bolding out the word 'FREAK'. His arm burned painfully, like it was being licked by fire or dipped in acid. It hurt whenever he moved, even a slight twitch was like a thousand Atom bombs. Sherlock cut a few more places on his arm around the word, then put the blade and the box back into the cabinet. He went to his room and laid down, ignoring the flaring pain at the slight touch to his arm. He sat still in the night, waiting for the day to pass. Waiting for the one thing in his life he hadn't screwed up yet.

John.

~In John's Room~

John sat on the edge of his bed, thinking about today. He thought back to the end of his and Sherlock's most recent case:

John stood at the sidewalk, watching Sherlock talk with Donovan as he half-heartedly searched for a cab. One pulled up unexpectedly right next to him.

"Need a ride, mate?" The cabbie asked in an oily voice.

"Yes, but can you hold on for a minute? My friend will be over in a minute." John said.

"Sure." The cabbie replied. John turned his back to him and studied the passerby. They were all Yarders, since this was a crime scene, and they were all hustling to get all the evidence they could, as was the protocol. John shifted onto his left leg, his right giving him problems.

When he did this, he noticed Anderson, who was only six feet away, and a few other yarders give him a look. It was a look he'd seen before. It was pity.

John hated it when people gave him the 'aww, so sad. Poor little thing'  pity look. It meant that they thought he was weak, and that he was a broken, sad little man.

John was glad when Sherlock finally got in the cab and drove with him back to Baker Street.

John hated it. The pity look. The 'Aww, look at the injured bird. So sad.' look. But, whenever people gave him that look, John became more and more convinced it was true.

Not just the part about being weak and broken, although he very much was, but the subtext. The part where he knows, he knows that he lets down Sherlock.

Every case, every wild chase through London, John will have one problem or another, slowing down the detective.

In fact, Sherlock voiced as much.

_“You’re so vacant.”_

_*Sigh* “You’re so DULL!”_

_“Go do something important, for once.”_

_“Shut up! You don’t know anything about this!”_

John clenched his fists, fighting back hot tears of hatred. Not hatred of Sherlock, but of himself. John went to his dresser and began searching it, for what he wasn’t sure.

Shirts, trousers, and jumpers were pulled out and thrown to the floor in his search.

And that’s when he found it.

John stopped mid-grab when he spotted a wooden box. John grabbed it and set it gently on the dresser. He opened it.

Inside, were three small, long, and sharp blades, seemingly from a shaving razor. John picked one up and studied it. He remembered when he got these. It had been before he met Sherlock, when he had been depressed and seeing his therapist. After meeting Sherlock, he didn’t think he’d get a chance to use them. Here was his chance.

John set the blade down and pulled up his right sleeve. Then, he picked up the blade, pinching it between his thumb, second and third finger, and dragged it across his inner forearm, pressing it in with his index finger. He pulled away and studied his arm. After about twenty seconds, the cut in his arm began to bolden from the blood building up on top of it and pooling in miniature lakes. He made several more cuts along his forearm, watching as they all filled with blood. He thought about what other people would think if they knew he'd done this. He knew exactly what they'd say. They'd said it since second grade. John carved the five-lettered word into his inner forearm.

The large, crimson letters read 'FREAK'.

John looked upon what he'd done. 

 _It fits._  John thought. _It fits perfectly._

John cut a few more times, letting the blood dry on his skin, then put the blade and the box back in his dresser, hiding it under his unused jumper. He pulled his sleeve back down and laid on his bed, ignoring the burning pain of the exposed injuries. He closed his eyes, imagining he was with the one thing that wasn't a pitiful object in his pity-soaked life.

Sherlock.


	2. The Scorn That Left A Mark

John woke from his restless slumber, slowly getting up and going to his dresser. He winced as his sleeves dragged across the scars on his arms. He put on fresh trousers and picked out a red dress shirt, putting it on top of the dresser. He studied his arms, wondering at the effects of his work the night before.

Dried blood highlighted the damage, some spelling out a crudely done 'FREAK'.                     John ran his fingers along the letters, ignoring the burning of his touch. Suddenly, John heard a screech from downstairs. John looked at the clock. It was 4:30. Sherlock would be up by now. John rolled his eyes and, pulling on his shirt, went downstairs.

~Downstairs~

Sherlock stared up at the shadowed plaster ceiling, stewing in his boredom. Sighing, he looked at the clock. It was 4:10. Sherlock sighed and got up from his bed, barely remembering to pull on his bathrobe as he went to the living room.

Sherlock shuffled to the wall decorated by bullet holes and plopped into the sofa. He sat back and began to ponder his choices to stave of his boredom. Sherlock looked at the wall.

_No, too obvious and... Loud._ Sherlock thought. He looked at his bedroom door.  _I'll grab my violin._ Sherlock leapt up and strutted to his room, grabbing his violin case and hurriedly dropping it onto the sofa where he once laid. He flipped up the latches and pulled out his worn, but well varnished violin. He pondered what to play.

_Sod that._ Sherlock thought. He dragged the bow across the strings, creating a screech that hurt his ears. Sherlock stopped when he heard a shuffling upstairs.  _John._ Sherlock thought.  _He'll distract me._ Sherlock put his violin back and stowed it under the sofa, throwing himself back on it seconds before John walked in.

"Good morning, John." Sherlock said casually, his hands posed at his face as if he was praying. John bobbed his head in reply.

"Morning."

He walked into the kitchen and grabbed the kettle, filling it with water and putting it on the stove to boil.

"Bit early for tea, isn't it?" Sherlock asked.

"There's never not a time for tea." John laughed, walking into the living room and sitting down in his chair, fluffing his Union Jack pillow. He sighed contentedly, relaxing in the dusty atmosphere of the room. He looked over at Sherlock, who was as stiff as a board, save his left hand brushing up and down his right forearm.  _Probably craving a_ _nicotine patch._ John thought, rolling his eyes. 

"What are you doing up?" John asked. Sherlock snorted.

"You know very well that I rarely ever sleep, if I sleep at all. I'm bored, and I'd rather be in here than my room. My room is tedious." Sherlock then went back to rubbing his arm, his eyes glazed as he stared into space. John rolled his eyes again as he got up, hearing the kettle whistling. 

"Sorry I asked." He muttered. He pulled out mug and an Earl Gray tea bag, put the bag in the mug, and poured the kettle's contents into the mug with it. He put the kettle in the sink and carried his tea to the living room, sitting back down in his chair. He put the mug on the coffee table and watched as the steam rose and faded away.

The two flatmates sat in silence for what seemed like hours, save the radiator humming and the occasional dull rumbling of cabs driving outside in the street. John  looked at the clock on the desk. It was 6:47. John sighed and grabbed his computer, logging on to his blog. He read the recent comments. Most were just ramblings of 'You're joking' and 'Interesting story, mate'. John was about to log off, when he spotted one that was different than the others. It read:

**Sorry to bother you, Dr. Watson, but I may have a problem.**

John read on, intrigued.

**You see, I have been following the local news, and I have found that people have been disappearing in my town. It may sound boring, but I was wondering if your mate Sherlock Holmes would look into it.**

**-Jake Molaris**

John squinted in thought, looking at Sherlock. He typed in a reply:

**Of course, Mr. Molaris. How soon could you come to Baker Street?**

**-John Watson**

John sat back and was about to close his computer, when his screen flashed.

**I could come down tomorrow, sometime around noon. Does that work for you?**

**-Jake Molaris**

John scoffed.  _Who is on their computer this time of day?_ Then, John frowned.  _Oh yeah, me._ John scowled and focused on the task at hand.

**Yes, that would perfectly. See you then.**

**-John Watson**

John logged off the computer then, placing it in the desk drawer. He went over to Sherlock and nudged him.

"Oi, Sherlock." He said softly. Sherlock didn't stir. John nudged him harder. 

"Hey. Princess Sherlock. I might've found you a case." 

Suddenly, the robed mass swiftly turned to look at the doctor, so quickly that it startled him. Sherlock squinted at him.

"A case, you said?" He mumbled through his bunched robe. 

"Yes, a case, but not right now." John clarified. Sherlock sighed dramatically and curled back up into the sofa. "A Mr. Jake Molaris is coming over tomorrow at noon. Something about local disappearances."

Sherlock sighed again, sitting up. He made a pouty face at John.

"Seriously? Disappearances? Disappearances are boring!"

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Well, what do want me to do? It's been weeks since your case with the girl, and you've been really weird recently.

"It's the only lead you've got. I'm just trying to help."

"Well, then don't! You just manage to mess it up! Like you do with everything!" Sherlock snapped harshly.

John's expression went from annoyed to badly hurt in a flash, his jaw clenching. John looked at the floor and swallowed.

"I'll be right back." John said through clenched teeth, walking up to his room. "I need to check something." He stormed upstairs, slamming the door behind him. Sherlock cursed himself fiercely. That was a low blow, even for him. He jumped up, and was about to go up and apologize, but Sherlock decided against it. He'd probably just make it worse. Like he always did. Sherlock started walking to the bathroom, against his own reasoning. He knew it wouldn't solve anything. He knew that it would probably put him in an even bigger predicament. But it just felt so... Relieving. And whenever he did it, he drifted away for just a few seconds into a sort-of bliss. Sherlock pulled out a wooden box and took a razor blade from it. He looked into the mirror at his reflection. He remembered John's face when Sherlock had insulted him. Sherlock dragged the blade swiftly through his skin in frustration. He did it multiple times to each arm, watching as the blood leaked from the wounds. Sherlock let out a shaky breath, then pulled down his sleeves, putting the blade and the box away. He went back to the living room and grabbed John's computer, too lazy to locate his own. Sherlock sat at the desk and began to type away. Before his meeting tomorrow, Sherlock wanted to learn more about this... Jake Molaris.

~Upstairs~

John locked his bedroom door behind him and went to his dresser, pulling out the wooden box from last night. He opened it and pulled out a razor blade. He looked at his arm and the cuts on it. He thought back to Sherlock's hateful remark from seconds before. John clenched his jaw and sliced open his arm, blood building up in the cut. John did it several more times to his arms, not stopping until it hurt to move. John sat on the edge of his bed, studying the scars on his arms from the night before and the recent additions to his dark artwork, still wet with blood. He felt the pain and misery fill the wounds within the blood, giving meaning to the scars. John put the blade and the box back in his dresser, hiding them expertly. John winced at every pull and tug of the muscles in his arms, the movement causing them to burn. John took a deep breath to keep himself from screaming. He looked at his clock again. It was 7:10. John sighed. It was going to be a looooong day.


	3. The False Case

John sat at his designated chair in the living room, trying to distract himself with his laptop. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, typing on his phone to who John thought to be Lestrade. Sherlock glanced at John, then looked back at his phone. Looked up. Looked down. Up. Down. Then, he sighed frustratedly.

“John, I can tell you’re still upset from yesterday.” Sherlock said. He frowned when John didn’t even acknowledge he had spoken.

“John.” Sherlock repeated. Still no response.

“John, I’m sorry! Alright? Is that what you want to hear? ‘I’m sorry’?” Sherlock stared at John, waiting for an answer, any answer. He received none.

“Yoo hoo!”, called a cheery voice from the door. “Boys, you’ve got a visitor!”

“It’s Jake Molaris. From yesterday.” A young male voice called. John got up and walked to the door. Next to Mrs. Hudson, was a tan-skinned man in his late-twenties in a brown shirt and leather coat with dark mauve trousers and dull gray boots.

“Ahh, Mr. Molaris. Please, come in.” John led Molaris to the living room, where Sherlock was now pacing from one side of the room to the other. John showed Molaris to the sofa, and sat back down in his chair. 

“So, Mr Molaris, what exactly is it that made you come see my colleague here?” John asked, gesturing to Sherlock. 

“Well, Dr. Watson, as I said on your blog, people have been disappearing from my town, all of them from my neighborhood.

“I’m worried about them. Some of them are friends of mine. I’ve been trying to find them, but I’ve found nothing but dead-ends. I was hoping you and Mr. Holmes could help me find them.”

Sherlock was staring intently at Molaris, eyes narrowed.

“Describe your town. What kind of place is it? Is it the kind of place kidnappers and murderers would dwell?” He asked in bored drawl.

“No, of course not!” Molaris cried. “It’s a very good place to go when you’re tired of all the crime of the world, actually. It’s a very peaceful, relaxing town. It’s also a very popular vacation town. In fact, this time of winter is when it’s best to go there. It’s when no one else is there to clog up the streets and pubs.” 

Sherlock nodded his head as he listened. John could almost see the gears running at full speed in Sherlock’s head.

“Alright, Mr. Molaris, I think I have enough to go on. I’ll take your case.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” Molaris sighed in relief. He wrote on a slip of paper and handed it to John. “Here’s my number, so you can call me if you need anything else.” And with that, Molaris left the flat, the door squeaking closed behind him.

“John.” Sherlock said, turning to his flatmate. “Pack your bags. We’re going to Reading.”

John sighed. “How long?”

“Three days. Pack warm.” Sherlock strutted to his room to pack his own things for the trip. John rolled his eyes.

_ Reading. In the middle of winter. Great. _ John went upstairs and swiftly packed his bags, a skill he’d learned in the army. He grabbed his bag and was about to take it downstairs, when he saw a small box out of the corner of his eye. He looked at his dresser. His razor box. He grabbed the box and tucked it out of sight under his clothes, along with his gun. He closed the bag again and lugged it to the flat. Sherlock was waiting there, his own bag in hand. John pulled on coat and gloves, tying his scarf around his neck.

"Well," John sighed, hefting his bag. "To Reading?" He turned to his flatmate. Sherlock nodded.

"To Reading."


End file.
